


heads in the sand, on three!

by flashgoddess



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Angst and Humor, Character Study, Crab Therapy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-21
Updated: 2018-03-21
Packaged: 2019-04-05 10:21:56
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 890
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14042151
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/flashgoddess/pseuds/flashgoddess
Summary: Maglor and the art of repression.





	heads in the sand, on three!

Some speculate it is the ghost of an Elf maiden, pining for her lost lover. 

Others say it is a mad Elf Lord, driven insane by the strange sea longing that consumes its race. 

Whoever it was is pales in importance to what it is: an ill omen. A bringer of Death. It lures Men to their destruction, they whisper. Charms sailors into strange and deadly passions with a song of enchantment. Ever so sweetly, it bids them run their ships into the unforgiving reefs or leap from their decks into the frigid waters. It is a spirit of doom. It is a witch. It is a cunning seducer. 

“That one is my personal favorite,” Maglor muses to the crab perched on his chest. “Cunning is rather accurate, wouldn't you say?”

It foams its mouth at him. He frowns. 

“How dare you. I could seduce someone if I wanted to,” he says petulantly, ignoring the distant guffaws of his brothers in Mandos.

“I doubt you could.” He pokes it. “You’re just an ugly crab.”

In the next five minutes of flailing after it pinches him in a rather sensitive area, he inhales approximately several tons of sand. Sadly, this does not kill him. 

Gingerly rubbing his sore chest, he thinks of the possibilities. It would require an elite council of advisers, dedicated to helping him navigate the perilous minefields of courtship. 

“Kano,” he rumbles in Feanor’s patented voice of Disapproval. “Love is not a spectacle. Stop trying to make it one. Go practice your scales.”

(This was coming from someone whose own infamous proposal had involved a six foot tall metal sculpture, pyrotechnics, and an original composition performed with backing vocals from the Taniquetil Ladies’ Choir. )

What would his mother have said? 

“It does not have to be this complicated, my darling. Do what makes you both happy,” Maglor croons in a falsetto voice that he regrets immediately. He is fairly confident that her voice had been deeper, more like rolling thunder than a screeching gull. 

He thinks harder. 

Ambarussa would have stared blankly at him.

Caranthir would have blushed and mumbled something about prenuptial agreements.

Curufin would have been wholly useless except as a divorce lawyer. And _he_ had been the happily married one. To be fair, it had not seemed so surprising then as it did now. 

Celegorm would have suggested sending two fattened pigs and a sensible fruit basket.

Maedhros would have also been extremely unhelpful if only because he had one strategy that worked on exactly one person and involved, among other inconveniences, being held captive and losing a perfectly good hand. 

"I would have done a excellent job by myself. It would have been devastatingly poetic and very tasteful. Stop laughing!" he demands of the wind, stomping his foot on the sand. 

It is true! He had nearly done it once before.

He ignores his father’s prim sniffing that it hardly counted since Teleri shipwrights were notorious for their casual engagements. To Maglor, at least, it had not been so casual. It had not been much of an engagement, either. Now, it was just an old argument that did not matter anymore. That ship had-quite literally-sailed a long time ago. It did not bear thinking.

“In conclusion: I am right and by simple majority of one, the motion is passed forever,” he declares to the empty beach.

Slightly satisfied, he devotes the next hour to finding his harp. Eventually, he spots it half buried in the sand and horribly out of tune. It resists tuning, resentfully throwing sunlight into his eyes.

"That seems fair,” he says, nodding solemnly.

He clambers onto an outcropping of rocks, looking for any collateral damage that might be passing by. The sky vaults high above the ocean, melting into the deeper blue stretching underneath it. Over the cresting waves, white clouds swing low to dip their bellies into the water. A gentle breeze tousles his matted hair. His mother would have been appalled at its condition. Not of your hair, comes a thought that he cheerfully ignores. A flock of birds pass overhead, calling excitedly to each other as they dive into the waves. He raises his voice to greet them. 

On the way down, he slips on the wet rocks. This also fails to kill him.

Blood drips from tiny cuts on his scraped left hand, the right having been cushioned by the cloth wrapped several times around it.

“This is fine. I am supposed to be here,” he says as he lies back down in the warm sand.

“It will wash up eventually,” he tells the Sun. A cloud passes over it-the world darkens, briefly.

_Maedhros, stepping over the edge, with a smile on his face -_

He presses his harp and his trembling hands to his chest and thinks of diving birds. 

“I am supposed to be here,” Maglor repeats, closing his eyes. 

Waves lick at his cracking heels. He plucks the harp strings in time with his heartbeat. The sun sets and rises once, twice, an infinite number of times. When he eventually opens his eyes, there is a crab sitting on his chest. It foams its mouth at him. He smiles indulgently. 

“Oh, hello. Allow me to introduce myself, little friend. It’s rather complicated, I warn you. You see, they call me a lot of things.”

**Author's Note:**

> You know what they say, exile makes for strange bedfellows. Beach fellows? Sand fellows? 
> 
> Either way Maglor's nipple is not having a great day.


End file.
